Stille inne and oute and rounde aboute,
And stille no maiden meetinge;
Till, piqued, ye rogue unbinds hys eyes,
And, perched upon a branch, espies
Ye mayde retreatinge;
“Fie! Fie!” cries Love—“you’re cheetinge!”
“Now, you,” quothe he, “must seeke for me!”
She binds her eyes, assentinge,
And inne and oute and rounde aboute,
Seeks she for Love relentinge—